Hangman
by MusicalLuna1
Summary: Not all games are innocent.


The sound of the rain on the roof was amplified by the empty wooden-walled rooms and thunder rumbled through the building, dark and low. "_Spencer!_" Lassiter shouted, gun clutched tightly in his hand as he tried to squash the concern growing in his gut. It had been too long since anyone had seen him last. Behind him O'Hara was calling his first name insistently, an almost indiscernible note of worry in her strong, clear voice.

"Spencer!" he shouted again, grimacing as lighting lit the bare room, thunder crashing almost unbearably loud just seconds later. The storm was nearly on top of them then. "Spencer, answer me, dammit!" he shouted, moving warily into the next room; a large, high ceilinged family room from what he could make out. He swung his gun and his flashlight around as one and saw nothing. Nothing until the lightning spiked again, and a dark shape overhead was silhouetted in the brief, blinding flash. He looked upward as a smaller bolt lit the room again, briefly, and his mouth went dry.

A body dangled limply from a thin rope tied to the fan at the highest point on the ceiling, swinging lazily in slow circles. "Oh, god…" he muttered and then he steeled himself, barking, "_O'Hara!_"

She hurried up behind him and her eyes followed the beam of his flashlight. With the gasp that followed, Lassiter knew she had caught up with him. "We have to get him down!" she cried. "He can't have been up there long…!" The horror flowing through her made her head spin and her knees weak.

"Let's hope not," he muttered and turned a fierce glare on the officers still tucked in the doorway. "What are you waiting for?!"

Juliet felt sick as she watched the officers get a ladder, Lassiter practically scrambling up it and then shying away involuntarily, even as he tried to get Shawn's limp form down. She couldn't be sure how long he had been there and her stomach tightened painfully at the thought that he could have died like this while they were—

"Wait, _wait!_" one of the officers shouted from near the far wall, his light fixed on a hook embedded in its surface, rope wrapped securely around it.

"His neck won't be broken…" Lassiter muttered and shouted, "Get him down you idiot! He hasn't got all night!"

The officer nodded sharply and quickly unloosed the rope, carefully lowering Shawn's body with the help of two of his comrades. Several hands lowered the psychic's slumped figure gently down to the wooden floor but it was Lassiter who loosened the noose and pulled it over Shawn's head, his face intense. "Come on, Spencer," he muttered, "Come on, breathe!"

"He's not blue, that's a good sign," O'Hara murmured, pushing his hair back from his forehead as she shone her light on his face. She and Lassiter both grimaced at the furious red marks around his neck.

"He's not breathing though," Lassiter said, and shoved his gun and his flashlight into the hands of a nearby officer, yanking off his jacket for better mobility. "I'm starting CPR."

As he started compressing Shawn's chest, Juliet whispered, "Come on, Shawn, you can't do this just yet."

"Breathe, O'Hara!" Lassiter ordered and she bent without thinking, tipping his head back and breathing into his mouth.

"Come on, come _on_…!" Lassiter muttered and the house rumbled with the sound of thunder. "Six…seven…breathe, O'Hara!"

They repeated the gestures over and over until Juliet was starting to have trouble catching her breath and they switched positions, the only sounds aside from their attempts to resuscitate the still and silent form of the psychic from the storm raging on outside.

Lassiter breathed firmly, watching Shawn's chest expand slightly out of the corner of his eye and his heart felt tight in his chest. They had been fighting for what felt like forever—it could only be a minute or two—but there was no response and—

O'Hara pushed and suddenly Shawn sucked in a small gasp, his features contorting as he stirred. Juliet immediately stopped, a half laugh of surprise and joy slipping from her mouth. "Shawn?" she said, her tone belying her hope.

"Spencer," Lassiter breathed and the relief was immense. His head dropped wearily, a grin spreading rapidly across his face as the ragged but steady breathing continued. "You _idiot_…"

Shawn coughed weakly, the noise in the room rapidly growing as the news spread and he continued breathing roughly, rasping, "Wha—what took so long?"

Lassiter and O'Hara laughed, tears pricking at the corners of O'Hara's eyes and Lassiter remarked smartly, "We'll try to be quicker the next time you decide to play Hangman."

Shawn let out a breathy chuckle and winced. "Ouch. You guys think you tried hard enough?"

Juliet squeezed his hand reassuringly. "A cracked rib is the least of your worries right now Shawn. You're going to be okay. The paramedics should be here any second."

He smiled and squinted up at her. "So I got mouth-to-mouth?" he whispered.

She grinned and Lassiter smirked. "Sure did." He paused just long enough for a grin to creep onto Shawn's face and then added smugly, "From me."

Shawn groaned softly and they laughed. "From _both_ of us," Juliet amended. "Jeez, Shawn, you really know how to maximize the drama, even when you're unconscious."

He grinned. "It's the only way to go."


End file.
